


New Year

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, New Years, Romantic Friendship, Smooth Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is spending New Year's Eve alone in 221B- or so he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Year

John pulled open the window, shivering as a rush of cold air hit him. It was quiet out on the street, the only noise being the gentle purr of car engines as they drove past below him. He lifted his wrist up closer to his face. Frowning slightly, he tilted it, trying to catch the face of his watch in the soft orange glow of the streetlights reflecting up towards him.  
  
Two more minutes.  
  
John smiled. For some reason he loved to spend New Year’s at home, despite the numerous get-together invitations he always had to reluctantly turn down. This year he had been tempted to say he would go to the party in Lestrade’s flat. John wasn’t sure he could put up with Anderson and Donovan for a whole evening; they were bad enough usually, but without Sherlock to poke fun at them behind their backs it would be unbearable.  
  
John could have tried to persuade Sherlock to join him, but he had a feeling that after Sherlock’s ungraceful and rather hasty declination to Lestrade’s offer he wouldn’t be very welcome. Anyway, for John New Year’s Day was special, not just another excuse to get drunk.  
  
When he was a kid, he had always waited until the last minute before sneaking away from the bustling crowd of distant relatives gathered in the kitchen. He would sprint up the stairs, heart racing in time with the pounding of his feet against the steps, in a frenzied rush to throw open his bedroom window before the chime of the clock.  
  
Even now he could remember the same sudden icy gust finding its way down his pyjama top, the anticipation as he counted down the seconds on his watch and the pure thrill that took over as the big hand finally reached twelve. He had always loved the sudden void of silence as the world took a deep breath, filled almost instantly by the fireworks that burst up into the sky and illuminated his tiny figure.  
  
He used to make a wish when the clock struck midnight in the hall behind him, through his bedroom door carelessly left swinging on its hinges. He would whisper it to himself softly, barely audible over the sudden burst of life from outside. The dancing colours would reflect flawlessly in his eyes, a perfect mirror of the hope inside him.  
  
The corners of John’s mouth turned up slightly as he remembered. Every year, in some way or another, he had kept to his little traditions. Even when he was away in Afghanistan he had made a wish at midnight when the New Year came. The other soldiers had poked fun at him for avoiding the celebrations, but he didn’t care.  
  
One minute to go.  
  
On the street outside, there were no signs of life. He couldn’t help but wonder what his friends were doing- probably laughing far too long over some stupid joke, or mindlessly sipping at glasses of cheap champagne.  
  
He didn’t have a clue where Sherlock was. He always seemed to disappear at times like these. John sighed softly. While he valued the solitude, he wouldn’t have minded sharing the moment with Sherlock. The silence was strange, and John almost missed the mildly insulting comments that usually followed any display of sentiment. He could almost hear Sherlock’s voice keeping up a sarcarstic commentary from the empty armchair behind him.  
  
Thirty seconds left.  
  
John felt excitement start to take hold of him, and he opened the window carefully. The cold air slid out of the dim glow of the streetlamps and wrapped around him like a fond memory. A childish tendency came over him and he broke into a wide grin, not caring that he was being silly.  
  
Ten.  
  
John glanced at his watch again, watching the second hand slide gradually towards midnight.  
  
Seven.  
  
Five seconds left.  
  
A shiver came over him, but he barely noticed. He was wrapped up in the excitement of the moment, his only focus the existence of the old year slowly draining away.  
  
Four.  
  
His New Year’s wish was planted firmly in his mind, and a wave of regret came over him as he thought of it. Pre-emptive regret. It sounded like an oxymoron, John thought, and then chuckled to himself as he thought of how ridiculous he was being. It was nearly the new year, and he was worrying about paradoxes.  
  
Three.  
  
It had been the same sort of wish for the last couple of years, he knew it was never going to come true- and yet still he could think of nothing he’d rather wish for. It was never going to happen. John frowned at himself, annoyed that all he could think of was the sure disappointment of the coming year.  
  
Two.  
  
_No, no, don’t do that. Think paradoxes. Paradoxes._ John tried unsuccessfully to refocus his thoughts. _Why paradoxes? Paradoxes. It doesn’t sound like a word anymore. Semantic satiation. Interesting. God, what’s happened to my mind?_ He shook his head amusedly.  
  
One.  
  
All thoughts of paradoxes flew from his mind, and with them the regret that had passed over him. It was nearly time- he gave a smart salute to the old year in its last moments. The second hand dragged the last millimetres, savouring the dying moment of the old year.  
  
This was it.  
  
Midnight.  
  
S I L E N C E  
  
Everything held its breath as the new year arrived. For a split second there was total silence as even the world itself seemed to pause in its tracks. John was in a vacuum, alone but for the excitement surging up inside him, and he could sense the pure energy of London as time briefly stood still.  
  
And then, faintly in the distance, he heard the ring of a church bell, and everywhere suddenly exploded with noise and movement and liveliness. John leaned out of the window, with little regard for safety, and craned his neck to try and get a better view.  
  
There was a series of loud cracks as the first fireworks burst overhead, barely visible from the window. They were followed by more and more, until the sky was lit up with the ever-changing colours that fizzed and popped in the sky.  
  
The church bells were drowned out by the series of bangs, and a dog barked over the top of the noise that had come out of nowhere. Drunken figures appeared in the street, yelling out greetings to anyone who would listen.  
  
John’s joyful laugh was lost in the chaos from outside. Finally, it was the New Year! He watched the scene outside, grateful for the familiar sight. It was different from when he was a kid, certainly. He could barely see the fireworks that were still bursting above him, but their colourful flashes reflected across the whole sky.  
  
When he was smaller the fireworks had been the best part of New Year, but now he hardly noticed them compared to the pure energy that was unique to London. He could still make out bells ringing somewhere to his right, and remembered his wish.  
  
“I wish...” His words were lost somewhere in the excitement.  
  
“I wish that I could love Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
Even as he said it, his cheeks flushed pink. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Love wasn’t what he meant... was it?  
  
“No, not love. Love was the wrong word. I meant...” But he didn’t know what he meant. It was too late now, anyway. John smiled sadly, wondering exactly what he had meant by his wish.  
  
“I can’t love him.” John didn’t even realise he was mumbling the words- not that there was anyone listening.  
  
For a second he pondered the thought, and wondered when exactly this urge had appeared. He realised that this was the first time he had really admitted it to himself. Sherlock had been the reason behind his New Year wishes for the last couple of years, but John had never been so... obvious.  
  
The first year it wasn’t much, but it still took him by surprise when he found his mouth forming the words that had been nagging away at the back of his mind. “I wish that I could understand Sherlock Holmes.” It had struck John as strange that this was what his subconscious mind yearned for, but once he had wished for it he hadn’t been able to ignore the thought. Understanding Sherlock proved to be more of a challenge than it seemed.  
  
The next year, the wish was a little different. “I wish that I could know Sherlock Holmes.” At first, he had been a little confused as to why this was so very different to last year’s wish, but with some thought it began to make sense. John did not ‘know’ many people. He had met them, of course, but he realised that to him knowing someone was almost a foreign concept. To him it was a deep emotional bond, a two-way type of relationship. It couldn’t work without that. And yet, John had never told Sherlock about his wish. Things had gone on as ever.  
  
And now, this year, he had gone one step too far. He wasn’t sure why he cared so much about a pretentious idiot in a long coat- there was no denying that he felt something- but he was fairly sure he hadn’t meant what he had wished.  
  
“I’m not gay,” John muttered, as a reminder to himself more than anything. But even as he said it, he couldn’t help the small smile that spread across his face. However, it was soon replaced by concern. John was fairly sure it had been an accident; he had just been a bit confused. Friends, that was what he wanted. To be good friends.  
  
So many people had assumed that he and Sherlock were a couple that John had almost started believing he wanted it to be true. No, they weren’t a couple. They could never be a couple. God, who would ever want to go out with Sherlock? John imagined Sherlock trying to get a girlfriend, and images of experiments involving poisoned coffee or causing permanent psychological damage sprung into his mind. Probably both.  
  
The memory of the time when Sherlock had poisoned his coffee slipped into his mind, and he pushed the thoughts away quickly before they became too personal. It was better to just ignore how he thought he felt; maybe then it would go away.  
  
As he leaned forward to shut the window, a shiver running through him, he thought he heard a noise from downstairs. John paused, listening carefully, but all he could make out over the muted bangs of the fireworks and shouts from the street was Mrs. Hudson laughing at something.  
  
He hadn’t realised she was home. _I should go and wish her a Happy New Year_ , John thought. Poor thing, home alone on New Year’s Day. Firstly, though, he was dying for a cuppa.  
  
Feeling slightly guilty for putting tea above his landlady, he made his way into the kitchen and flicked on the light. The sudden brightness hurt his eyes, and he stumbled towards the kettle with only one eye cracked open.  
  
He switched it on, rubbing his eyes with the other hand. The disoriented feeling was beginning to lift.  
  
A hand brushed against his arm.  
  
Without thinking, John had already thrust his elbow into whoever was standing behind him. There was no noise from them.  
  
_God, what have I done now?_ John wondered, turning to face whoever was standing behind him. He was met with the sight of Sherlock, a vaguely amused expression on his face.  
  
“It’s not customary to assault the first-foot.”  
  
John frowned. “The what?”  
  
“In Scotland, it’s considered lucky if a tall, handsome, dark-haired stranger is the first person to enter the house in the New Year. Some parts of England, too, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”  
  
“You’re not a stranger.”  
  
“And you’re not denying the rest.” Sherlock turned away and pulled open the cupboard, grabbing a couple of teabags and dropping then on the worktop. He looked back to John, who was staring at Sherlock curiously.  
  
“Are you flirting with me?”  
  
“What gave you that impression?” Sherlock asked, clearly not expecting an answer. “Oh, you might want to drink your tea black today. I wouldn’t risk trying the milk.”  
  
There was a short pause.  
  
“John? It was an experiment. It’s not harmful. Probably.”He reached into the fridge and pulled out the milk bottle.  
  
“Actually, you really shouldn’t drink it. Oh, look- it’s congealing already!” He held the bottle up to the light and watched the semi-liquid sloshing around inside.  
  
“Sherlock...” John said, his voice a mixture of exasperation and fondness.  
  
Sherlock dropped the milk into the sink and turned back to face John. “Not good?”  
  
John shrugged, used to Sherlock’s experiments by now. Well, as used to them as he would ever be.  
  
“It’s fine. Though you could tell me next time.”  
  
Sherlock nodded shortly, then looked down and rubbed his side tenderly.  
  
“Sorry,” John apologised, gesturing to Sherlock’s ribs. “You surprised me.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“What’s that meant to mean?” John questioned, a crease forming in his brow. The kettle bubbled loudly, and he reached over to pour it into the teapot.  
  
Suddenly John felt arms round him, and Sherlock dropped the two teabags into the pot over his shoulders. John twisted to face Sherlock, who was smiling down at him.  
  
“I’ve always been one for surprises.”  
  
Before John could react, Sherlock’s lips were already pressed into his own; gentle, caring, but passionate. John made no attempt to pull away, and instead closing his eyes and leaning into Sherlock’s strong figure and let him take over.  
  
He felt Sherlock’s hands slide carefully down his back. John reached up to Sherlock’s face, resting one hand on his shoulder and sliding the other round the back of the taller man’s face, pulling him closer.  
  
Sherlock leaned in easily. John felt Sherlock’s whole body relax slightly and he kissed back, harder, determined to hold Sherlock like this forever.  
  
They fell against the counter, but neither of them noticed the cold stone worktop pressing against into their skin. Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s waist. The kiss was stronger now; more urgent, and Sherlock’s lips were fighting for more. John gave in to the detective.  
  
Finally Sherlock pulled away, leaving John leaning breathlessly against the worktop.  
  
“Happy New Year, John Watson.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.


End file.
